Gregg Hurwitz - The Program

"You're responding to my complaint? You're with LAPD, correct?"

"No, sir. I'm a deputy U.S. marshal. I contacted you because I need your help with a case I'm working on. I haven't received any correspondence from you."

"Oh." Bederman stopped walking. "Oh, oh, oh. How terribly disappointing." He studied his folded hands thoughtfully. "We see what we want to see."

"I'm trying to help a girl who got tangled up in a cult. I'd like a few minutes of your time."

"Let's see that badge."

Bederman examined it closely, then Tim's credentials. He handed them back and strode the path, Tim moving to keep up. "If you're making an effort to bust up a cult in a way that's real, I'll help you. If you're poking around, asking the usual questions to file the usual report that sits on the usual desk, I won't."

"My task is to locate the girl and get her out. I can't promise more than that."

"Can you promise me some turpentine?" He swept a hand through his white beard, and it came away spotted with paint. "That was a joke."

"Pretend I laughed politely."

He halted and looked at Tim. "I like you. No tough-guy routine, no unrealistic promises, no polite laughter. And you could have taken advantage of my misunderstanding about your identity."

"I've been taken advantage of too many times in my life."

"So you feel bad for others?"

"I don't like the feeling it gives me when I do it to others."

"Very good, Deputy Rackley. Very good." Nodding at a passing faculty member, he hurried down a set of stairs. "Tell me about this girl."

Tim had mostly filled him in by the time they entered Franz Hall. He couldn't help but think of the horrible evidence he'd discovered in this very building a year ago in William Rayner's office. With some effort he refocused on Bederman's words.

"The good news is, there are signs that this girl is receptive to leaving the cult. The timing might be good. You say she went home for a day. Even if she fled, that shows she's at least open to other options on some level. She's probably just too afraid to seek them -she's likely been programmed to believe that her life is worthless outside the group. Did she have any new allergy problems, asthma, or ailments when her parents saw her?"

"Her mother mentioned a rash, yes."

"These are ways the body makes cries for help when the mind won't. She might be ready when you find her. But if you come into any contact with the cult, you'll have to be extremely careful. Mind-control techniques are very subtle and coercive."

"I can handle myself. I've had military countertraining."

A slight smile played upon Bederman's lips as he opened the door to a corner office on the second floor. "You have, have you?" Papers and files covered the entire room, taking up virtually every horizontal surface. Tim noticed a piece of almost comical hate mail on the assistant's empty desk, its jagged little letters cut from magazines. LEAVE US ALONE OR DIE. A framed poster on the wall showed a herd of cows being driven into a slaughterhouse. In black lettering across the bottom: Safety in Numbers.

"It appears messy to the untrained eye, but it's actually a highly sophisticated filing system. Be careful not to move anything. Would you mind sitting up on that counter?" Bederman pointed to a clear stretch of water-stained countertop in the corner.

"I'll stand."

Bederman settled into his desk chair, fingers resting on his cheek. "Right. Maybe the coffee table there would be more comfortable. Take care not to wrinkle the papers."

Tim sat awkwardly on the low table.

"As I was saying, do not underestimate mind-control techniques."

"I'll be fine. I have an eye for that stuff."

"I'm sure you do. Military countertraining and whatnot." Bederman's eyes twinkled. "But I just got you to sit on a coffee table."

Tim looked at the two chairs in the office, which were unburdened by paperwork.

"Reciprocal concessions," Bederman said. "I conceded that you didn't have to sit on an uncomfortable countertop. You then made a concession to match my concession, never mind that there are two perfectly fine chairs at our disposal, never mind the fact that if I'd asked you first to sit on the coffee table, you almost certainly would have declined."

Tim took a moment to remind himself he should be impressed, not irritated.

"You're neither weak nor foolish for doing this. Reciprocal concessions are a key aspect of living in a community. If there were no social obligation to reciprocate a concession, who would want to make the first sacrifice? How would society function? Mind control can begin with simple, innocuous 'suggestions' like these." He winked. "Get a flower, give a dollar, right?" He gestured at a chair with a hand that, Tim noticed, trembled slightly. "Please."

Tim moved to the chair.

"I'm not trying to make you feel foolish. I'm merely trying to show how insidious these techniques are. Do you have children?"

Tim felt the familiar ache in his chest. "I did."

Bederman nodded sympathetically, assuming divorce or estrangement, as they always did. "Well, you remember the annual Christmas-toy crazes, then? Cabbage Patch Kids, Beanie Babies, Nintendo Game-Cubes?"

"The hot holiday toy that every kid absolutely must have."

"Precisely. Children extract promises from their parents that they'll receive said toy, but toy companies purposefully limit the supply. Panicked parents have to buy other holiday gifts to appease their tyrannical youngsters. The toy companies wait until late January, then flood the market with the desired toy. Parents have to fulfill their prior obligations to their children and – bam – toy companies have managed to double their sales. Literally millions of families are duped into buying dumb, unwanted crap and helping promote the ubertoy every year and are not the least aware of it."

"So once you do what they want, you're more inclined to think what they want."

"Exactly. How were you suckered? Tickle Me Elmo?"

A chuckle escaped Tim. "Furby." He remembered trekking around town for weeks trying to locate the damn thing for Ginny, enduring endless jokes from Bear that a deputy U.S. marshal trained in hunting fugitives couldn't locate a mass-produced talking hairball. A My Pretty Pony had arrived under the tree instead, the Furby in February. "I'd never claim I haven't been made a fool of, probably more times than I'm aware."

"There's more to mind control than meets the eye, Deputy Rackley. That's all I'm cautioning. In fact, it's all about what isn't perceived, what isn't thought. You'll have to watch your back in ways that – even as a federal officer – you aren't accustomed to."

"Given I'm on your turf here, do you have any specific advice on how to do that?"

"It's game theory, really – mind games. All cults work by a finite number of truisms. You'll want to crack the code. What are the twelve steps? The seven habits of highly effective zombies? The Ten Commandments? Once you know what kind of cult you're dealing with, then you can figure out how to protect yourself."

"Does anything I've told you about this girl's cult ring a bell?"

"Yes. All the bells." Bederman smiled. "Does anything you've told me indicate one particular cult over another? No. The particulars you have are almost universal."

"I was told you treat a lot of cult survivors in your clinical practice."

"Hundreds. They're often programmed to self-destruct when they leave the cult, so they're rarely in good shape."

"Have you counseled anyone in the past few years who was recruited off the Pepperdine campus?"

He thought for a moment, finger pressed against his beard, then nodded. "About a year and a half ago, a family contacted me. Their son was a cult castaway, living on the streets. His parents enlisted my help, but he was too far gone. A schizophrenic mess."